Obsessions
by Shadow Valkyrie
Summary: A self help group? I know it's pointless. Rated for Kit's bad habits and half elf torture. Chapter 3 now has Raistlin, Dalamar, Caramon and the RRFGC in it!
1. Kit's Obsession

Written for my once-best-friend Laura, because "Be a good girl -keep those boots on!" became an ever-returning joke when we were teenagers.

Disclaimer:

1) I don't own Kit. sob WHY? Why can't I have her? 2) I don't own Crysania. That's no problem. I never liked her anyway. 3) I don't own a dragon. What a pity. 4) I don't own any places on / creatures from Krynn; especially no elves, which is probably a good thing; who knows what disgusting things a pervert like me might do to them?

Warnings: Nonsense

This is my second upload. I found out how it works! Tremble, suffer!

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**Kit's Obsession **(a slightly out of character/out of plot- and timeline parody of my favourite warrioress ever)

It is the weekly meeting of AAA: Ansalon's Anonymous Addicts. The main room in the Inn of the Last Home is crowded with people and... _things_ from all of Krynn's different races. Even a dragon's head is poking in through one of the windows. A silent corner is occupied by sullen, hooded figures, whose thin, skin-and-bones hands identify them as either elves, walking skeletons or cocaine-addicted supermodels. Running from one guest to the next, giggling little creatures with bouncing topknots are definitely the ones having the most fun on this otherwise serious occasion. The sign "Kender excluded" at the door has not kept them away, naturally. (Curiosity and cleptomania are addictions as well.) Therefore, this congregation is quite noisy business.

The much dismayed looking self-help group's leader -the incredibly disagreeable Lady Crysania, whose secret addiction are magic herbs, which is why she is always having near-suicidal relationships with evil black mages- tries to turn the chaos into a semicircle of chairs, carefully placing warring groups at differents sides to avoid quarrels and major fights. As soon as nothing more serious than shin-kicking and "accidental" beer-mug-on-shoe emptying occurs, her task is accomplished. Clearing her throat in the typical arrogant I-am-a-cleric-an-you-are-scum-but-I-am-too-kindly-to-notice way, she announces the evening's first guest: "Ladies, Gentlemen!" Occasional chuckles from the _things_ in the room. "I would like to introduce our new member: Kitiara Uth Matar! Applause, please. Step forward, Kitiara, you do not need to be shy." More chuckles; most of the creatures present know Kitiara -a large number have actually been in bed/in a haystack/on a market square with her.

Whistles follow the warrior, as she now gets up from her chair and takes off the heavy cloak she has been wearing. She looks breathtaking in her skintight blue dragonscale armour and is obviously well aware of that. Swaying her hips, she walks to the front, where a single chair is placed. With the crooked smile that has killed so many, she stretches luxuriantly and removes her helmet, that seems to have been designed for the sole purpose of making her curly hair look tousled and sweaty in a most erotic way. Crysania takes a quick gulp from her dwarfspirit-and-magic-herbs flask, to remind herself where her true addiction lies.

The warrior sits down and starts. "Hi. I'm Kitiara. I'm a nymphomaniac. But that's not a problem." Nods and shouts of approval from the assembly. She smiles again; no one notices the cleric slump down onto the floor unconscious. "My problem is, I'm obsessed. Obsessed with elves." Grunts of anger from the dwarven party. "But, hey, come on; that's a minor fault of character and it's my only one after all... And you just have to love elves, don't you? They are sooo adorable: those slender bodies, pretty faces, slanted eyes and pointed ears -not to mention those masses of long, gorgeous hair!" Behind the counter, Tika, the barmaid, sighs. Puddles of drool are forming on the floor and she will have to clean them up. She decides she doesn't like elves. She has never liked Kitiara, anyway. Fortunately, Kitiara is not good at thoughtreading. "I even have my own pet-elf; well, pet-half-elf, only," she explains with her smoky voice."But he's cute enough: all red curls, huge green eyes and that pretty, stupid smile. We tend to have such a _lot_ of fun together..." She winks to make everyone ctach her meaning -which wouldn't have been necessary, really. "Sure it would be even better if he'd not be so serious about things all the time, but I think I can cope with that. You know, I always, always end up doing as_ I _please and having it _my_ way!" She settles herself into a more comfortable position. "That's the best things about elves, really! Their women are such weak, helpless, despicable creatures, that they are not used to challenges. That's why they oh so readily accept that _I'_m the one with the trousers on." As everyone can see, she is only wearing chaps for the occasion and nothing much underneath. "To your knees, Tanis!" she quotes herself. "Get my boots off, you bastard! Yeah!" In the corner with the hooded figures, a red-haired and -surprisingly- bearded figure chokes on his ale. Everyone who knows his name expects him to faint with shame, but he doesn't. Maybe he's not the sissy everyone suspected, after all. Kitiara has meanwhiles decided to change her subject. "Well, at the moment, I must say, I'm annoyed. It's all about my brother's lover -no, not all those bitches that the big hulk Caramon is messing with! Keep those village girls away from me! I may be boyish, but I'm not interested in women!" She coughs a little. "Not much..." She waves a dismissive hand at the stunned faces around her. "No, it's all about my other brother. Right, Raistlin, that twisted little mage, has got a lover! Who'd have believed? Usually I'd say, 'Hey, congratulations, Raist, wherever did you find someone to neither judge you by looks, nor by character?' But no, this time I'm jealous! His lover is the cutest, sweetest, prettiest, most handsome and absolutely most adorably evil _elf_ I've ever seen!" Half of the men in the room cry bitter tears at the look of dreamy crushedness on her face, the other half is talking to their cosmetic surgeon on mobile phones, asking for a vague esteem what it might cost to turn them into elves. Kitiara seems to have forgotten the stupefied audience and is revelling in a not very appetizing private fantasy. "Imagine, what it must be like to have a dark elf lover! Someone who'd have no moral objections..." Her face twists into something truly ugly, as she is mimicking what is obviously her half-elven lover in an unnaturally highpitched voice: "'No, Kit, no! That is disgusting! And anyway, what's the pont in all this?'" She turns herself again, (ignoring the thud in the corner, that tells her audience the conversation has really taken place and, yes, the other participant has finally fainted). "'I told you to lick my sword, Tanis!'" The Tanis-imitation-voice again: "'But there is _blood _on it and I'm sure it's not... _normal_ for men to lick their girlfriends' swords. I mean it's a phallic symbol and all!'" She produces an exasperated sound. "How are you supposed to have fun with someone like that?" She looks around for confirmation an -much to her surprise- meets looks of incredulity and digust. The mobiles have vanished and everyone is glad not to be an elf -except for the elves, who try to sneak out a backdoor in secrecy, leaving an unconscious half-elf at Kit's doubtful mercy. With a completely unerotic snort she gets up, snatches her cloak and helmet from the floor and beckons fror the dragon to take her away.

A sigh of relief ebbs through the inn.

Meanwhiles, Crysania has recovered from the double impact of drugs and Kitiara's lethal smile and tries to get to her feet with the help of a table. She has vomited across several floorboards and feels a little better, in spite of the dirty looks Tika is sending her. Fortunately, she missed the revelations about Raistlin's lover, and since no one likes her, people won't tell her and happily watch her ridicule herself with her ramblings about love.

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Yes, I KNOW, Kit once said she liked real men, not weaklings, but since all her longer lasting relationships in the books are with elves, my guess has always been that she just can't admit she's in for the pretty types... and you just have to love elves, don't you?

If you can forgive me this violation of the English language and poor Dragonlance characters, be so gentle as to review. Constructive flames are always welcome! I might write some more chapters, if you've got suggestions who might be obsessed with what / whom...


	2. Tanis's Obsession

This chapter was written to make La-Bella-Luna happy, my very first (and up to now only) reviewer. Thanks for not only reading but also liking the story! Inspiration and motivation come with reviews and nothing else... To the rest of the world: Sorry I continued this crap, but I just had to... Plot bunnies of the ugly, scabby, dangerous kind are nagging on me.

Disclaimer:

1) I don't own Tas. You can't own kender, really.

2) I don't own Laurana. She'd only drive me mad, I guess.

3) I don't own Tanis. If someone cut his tongue out to stop him from whining, I'd take him, though. (licks lips, talks to herself gollum-like) Niccce elvvvesss...

Warning: strange nonsense (and getting worse), and still bad English

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**Tanis's Obsession **(still out of character and out of plot- and timeline, don't say I didn't warn you)

After Kit's rapid exit, only a few men seem to be disappointed (mostly those who have been too busy drooling to listen to what was actually said). Crysania (though neither a man nor an elf and thus in no danger of being forced to do nasty things with swords) is the most relieved person in the room: the danger of extracurricular fistfights has reduced immensely. The only problem is that she now has to find a new guest speaker. She takes an encouraging gulp from her flask and looks round the room. Funny how all those faces are blurring... The only unmoving, unlikely-to-escape person she finds, is lying unconsciously on the floor -and better off this way!

It is Tanis Half-elven, only waking up from shameshock-induced coma with frightened little squeaks of "No, Kit, nonono!", as the cleric takes him by the collar and drags him to the speaker's chair unceremoniously. The chair, however, is already occupied.

A kender is standing on it, getting ready for the performance of the day. "Hi, I'm Tasslehoff Burrfoot," his annoyingly cheerful voice announces happily. "Be good, folks: everybody say 'Hi Tas!'" He waits eagerly for his audience to respond, one hand behind his ear. Ice-cold hostily ebbs towards him in waves and easily freezes the wet floor over. Only a chorus of kender voices gives him a 'Hi Tas!' in unison with a cheerfulness that matches his own. Whoever suddenly notices he has been standing close to a kender all the time, begins searching his pockets for missing belongings. Since this results in a lot of sreams as "Filthy little thieves!" "Blasted kender!" and so on, Tas is suddenly confronted with a very lively audience -much to his delight. "Yes, folks, I love you, too!"

Crysania, still pretty drunk, can't decide whether to remove him with as little public damage as possible -by gripping is topknot and flinging him out the window for instance- or do nothing and let him be strangled by her helpful fellow addicts. She lets go of Tanis's collar (allowing him to breath for the first time in three minutes).

"Well, folks," Tas starts, "I'm not addicted to anything -a good thing, don't you think? Saves me so much money!-, so you might wonder what I'm doing here. See, you're all feeling bad -which I can understand, judging by the looks of some of you- and if someone feels bad, I tell them stories to sort of cheer them up, you know." Agonized groans from the crowd. "I mean, such a funny story is a lot better than all this boring talk about drugs and sex, isn't it? What about a story on Tanis? You all know Tanis, don't you?" After the last half-hour, the question is rather superfluous: even those who have never seen the half-elf, have gained a good impression of his character. "Once, uhm, so five or eight years ago or perhaps nine, oh, no not nine, seven most likely, we were all still living in Solace: Tanis, Flint, Kit, Raistlin, Caramon and Sturm... No wait that must be longer than seven years ago! Do you know Sturm, by the way? He's that knight who always refused to watch the girls bathing at the fountain with us, though that was such an awful lot of fun, because... Well, I was talking about Tanis and there was this one evening, when he..."

Crysania sees this as her one and only chance to step in and seizes it. "Well, Tas, dear," she says softly and soothingly as a cleric should, not betraying the disgust she feels for every life-form lower than herself (which she considers every living being -except maybe the gods- to be). "Why will you not let Tanis tell the story himself? I am sure it might help him, with whatever problem brought him here, to talk about his feelings!"

Tanis shoots her a manacing look, but seats himself at the chair that Tas has obediently vacated. The audience is grinning. Random shouts of "Boots, Tanis! Where's the boots?" and "Sword-fixation, Half-elven?" cause outbursts of heavy sniggering.

Tas pokes his friend in the ribs. "Come on! Tell them the story with that dress and how the dwarves fell in love with you!" he begs. Aloud.

Crysania looks rather bewildered. "That does not sound like a story that could help us help us here!" General disappointment. "Come, Tanis, there must be an obsession that you have, otherwise you would not have joined us here, after all. And talking does help! Nobody will judge you here!" Chuckles from the crowd.

"Well... okay." Tanis's face loses its permanent blush and becomes the very picture of sadness, self-pity and lost hope, adding well to his tragic posture. Everyone in the audience realizes: this is going to be another long, boring night. "I'm Tanis. I'm obsessed," the half-elf confesses. "I'm obsessed with Kitiara." Sighs, nods of sympathy -a lot of people share that particular problem (though some have overcome it this night). The only good aspect to it is that Kit-obsession doesn't even cause half the brain-damage of Crysania's magic herbs. "This is quite a messy situation, because I've been married to Laurana for several years now. Not that I don't love my wife -I absolutely do- but well... the whole thing is getting ugly somehow." His speech is so slurred and slow and generally tedious that several people have already begun to tear their cloaks into long stripes and knot ropes of them. It's difficult to tell whether they plan to make their way out the window or hang themselves. "The worst thing is, I don't even know why! She always makes me do embarrassing things and usually in public places, too... Kit, I mean, not Laurana." He rubs his upper arms in remembered pain. "And now my wife locks me in the cellar, everytime I call Kitiara's name in bed, or in the bathroom, or... let's say pretty much every time I say anything at all." He looks up for consolation, but only finds disbelieving stares. Laurana is a very slight woman and the thought of letting oneself be bullied by her is a bit ridiculous. Audiences aren't very compassionate, these days.

Crysania frowns. The first corpses are already dangling from the ceiling. Tika has decided to resign. To clean a mess like this has never been part of her contract. She tries to write a notice, but since she has never really learned to write, this might take more than just the evening.

"Well, Tanis," Crysania advances the desperate half-elf. "Maybe we can rid you of your obsession. That might save your misled marriage, too," she adds as an afterthought. "Just think of all the terrible and embarrassing things she ever made you do. You can't love her anymore then, can you?"

Tanis looks up at her, the slightest hint of exasperation creeping into his eyes. "I don't love her. I never did. I'm obsessed with her. I only want to sleep with her and it's getting worse every day because I'm so damn frustrated!" He almost spits out the last words.

Crysania smiles happily. "Anger is a good sign. Negative emotions are the first step of distancing yourself from the object of your unhealthy desire!" Several people frown at her, then realize how drunk and drugged she is and refrain from commentary. "We have heard various... let's say scary details, already. We will thereby be able to enact one of these embarassing situations to remind you and reawaken your disgust. Tas, will you please go and find a dress?" Tas, beaming with pride -his is a heavenly mission indeed- jumps away happily. Tanis makes an unhappy face. (Yes, even unhappier than usual!)

It is silent. A few more AAA-member hang themselves rather than face death by boredom. There are so few heroes in this world.

The awkward silence is broken when Tas returns, waving the most shockingly ugly dress seen on Krynn since the Cataclysm, courtesy of Tika Majere. Tanis snatches the proferred garment, his threatening glares smothering any comments from the crowd, and pushes it over his head. It is much too short and looks strange with his solid hunter's boots. The half-elf crosses his arms, causing several seams to creak. He doesn't know what to with the arms instead, so he gestures at Crysania in exasperated fashion. "Okay, I'm wearing the stupid dress! And I am still obsessed. Happy now?"

Crysania -unimpressed, though he is quite good at gesturing- pokes the air with a reprimanding finger. "It's only the first part of your therapy! We must make it realistic in order to work, remember?" She turns to the crowd. "Do we have any swords here?" Everyone in possession of such an item clutches it protectively and tries to look inconspicuous.

"You can't let him keep that beard, can you?" Tas interrupts, beaming up them innocently. "It doesn't go with the pink ruffles at all!"

Tanis -amazing how something can still shock him after all this- goes pale instantly, all anger forgotten. "No, not my beard! I need that! It's my only camouflage for places where they don't allow elves! Well, except naked on the stage of course, but that's not where I want to..."

"TANIS HALF-ELVEN!" An angry scream -high-pitched but still allowing a guess at the beautiful voice that produces it- pierces the air and makes practically everyone jump guiltily. A blond-haired beauty with a silent (because frightened) baby in her arm storms into the room like a revenging Fury.

"Does that have to happen _every_ time?" Tanis mutters under his breath. "And I didn't even say the word 'brothel' right out!"

"You met that _warrior_ again! Confess!"

Tanis's green eyes grow wide. This is NOT good. "W...well, she was here, yes, but, I swear, I didn't... please, believe me!"

"But Laurana, my dear," Crysania welcomes the elven girl. "How did you know she has been here? We knew why we did not invite you, after all." She sends a sideways glance at Tanis who is busily fighting tears of fear and desperation.

Laurana's lower lip starts trembling in a worrying manner. "I _cought_ her as she let her dragon _piss_ into our _garden_!" She is basically screaming again.

Tanis flinches. "But, lovey-dove! That was certainly nothing personal!"

"Nothing _personal_? It was my _flowerbed_! All my _perfect_ roses! Can you even _imagine_, what dragon-piss _does_ to them?" Tanis looks as though he doesn't very much want to know that, instead wants to be anywhere but here -and be it the Abyss. Laurana, the rage of years unleashed all at once, will not to be easily stopped. "Do you even know you ruined my_ life_, you egoist? You made me leave my home, my family and my canary Sheila!" Enraged she turns to Crysania. "Can you imagine he asks me to wear my brother's _boots_ in bed?" Crysania raises a cultured eyebrow at her. Tas is less tactful: "And? Do you?"

Laurana sniffs a little. "What do you _think_ where our children came from? I even wore _chain mail _in bed!" She turns her attention back to her violently trembling husband, who looks very likely to lapse back into his coma soon. The elven princess's voice is deceivingly sweet. Last chapter's puddles of (mostly) male saliva on the floor get a little stickier with the dripping honey. "_Why_ exactly did you say you were wearing a dress, my love?"

Tanis looks down himself, than back up at her. "Therapy?" her ventures, having learnt this new word tonight.

Tas jumps in happily: "He told us how Kit had him wearing dresses and Crysania wanted to see it, too, which was a good idea because it looks terribly funny and so we just asked Tika and..." Tanis clasps a hand over Tas's mouth, but it is too late.

"THIS WOMAN COMES HERE AFTER ALL THIS TIME AND YOU START PLAYING HER PET-ELF AGAIN WITHIN FIVE MINUTES?" Laurana's voice doubles over with shrieking.

"No, love, no! This time it was not for Kit! Just the opposite, actually! I'm trying to overcome my ...ahm... little problem and Crysania offered help. She said the best method of healing was a confrontation therapy and so, here I am, wearing one of Tika's ...well... dresses..." Tanis stammers, red-faced. He only gets the opportunity to talk at all, because Laurana has screamed herself hoarse. After a while he stops by himself because he notices his sentences get less and less coherent and nobody is listening, anyway.

Even Laurana has turned her face towards the door. Crysania has passed out again, but not from the herbs this time.

It's the groupie syndrome now.

The crowd has parted to allow entrance to two newcomers, both dressed in long, black mage's robes and heavy travelling cloaks, one of them bearing a staff with a dragon's claw holding a crystal on top.

"Oh-oh," says Flint Fireforge who has just come to a belated rescue of his friend, after sleeping on the hearthrug for five hours completely unnoticed. And he repeats it for better understanding. "OH-OH!" Then he runs. Screaming.

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Shit! That was even sillier than the first one... (frowns with self-disapproval) I seem to love making people do and say silly things. Poor Tanis! (And did you notice his mood changes every three lines?)

Review it anyway, please... That's not hard, is it? You might guess whose turn is next... And you can still decide whose turn it will be after that, by sending me your ideas this way. Doesn't that sound inviting?


	3. Raistlin's Obsession?

The third chapter already and I'm not getting serious hatemail... Is this because hardly anyone is reading the story at all? (How about every reader leaving a note saying "read and hated" or "read and liked"? That takes 20 seconds!)

Tanks to my reviewers, the faithful La-Bella-Luna, Phoenixasending, whom I haven't mentioned in last chapter's 'thank-you's (Sorry! I hope you will like my version of Raistlin...), and Dalamar Nightson (who will certainly not love this chapter) for giving ideas. Thanks to you all! Your encouragement really helped me! I hope I won't lose your positive opinion with this chapter. It's evil, but remember, it's for fun and I love the characters just as much as you do. (cough -most of them- cough)

Disclaimer:

1) I don't own Caramon. I wouldn't really want him. I already have dogs. (I would take the lunch boxes though...)

2) I don't own Raistlin and Dalamar. If I did, I'd buy them an airplane-ticket and send them to Skull Bearer, who writes such (lack of better word) _nice_ stories about them (winks) -and would probably drop dead seeing what I did to her mages if she ever read this... (Don't kill me, please! You know I love your stories and only make fun of the general cliché!)

3) I own the RRFGC, but anyone who likes may take it!

Warnings: Nonsense-overload, bad English... oh yes, and slash, but since it's a parody, it's only hinted... Maybe it'll finally get me my long-craved hatemail... (chuckle) Go on, folks, be offended!

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**Raistlin's Obsession?** (you still don't expect anyone to be in character, do you?)

"Congratulations, Half-elven," the man with the staff in his hand remarks in a sarcastic hiss. "Reviving old habits, are you? Once again you are standing in front of half of Solace in a pink dress. If you start singing the next minute, it will be just like in the old days. I'm sure we can find some dvarves for you, as well."

Some chuckles from the corners can be heard, but they die down quickly. The mage's disdainful golden gaze says plainer than words that he hasn't meant to amuse anyone other than himself. He shoves the hood back from his head, revealing long white hair and an oddly metallic-tinged skin. "Raistlin Majere," some fear-and-awe-stricken whispers tell the few blissfully ignorant members of the AAA, who had mistaken him for a Bond-girl from the 'Goldfinger'-movie.

A second's silence passes. Then a sound mass panic breaks loose. Chairs are knocked over, drunken people trampled down and purses stolen by happy kender -which makes the would-be stampede only gain a more chaotic flair.

"Don't try," the archmage says, his tones rather bored. "I put a spell on the door." Very obviously, he can't repress the urge to raise his eyebrows and look at his fingernails in a satisfied display of false modesty. "By the way, Half-elven: I always knew." Raistlin takes a large step over Tanis, who lies on the floor, still dressed in pink and helplessly sobbing, because nobody listens to him, nobody loves him and the whole situation is simply humiliating.

"Oh, you're so wise, master!" the other mage whispers aloud in adoring tones, lovesick being the friendliest description of his facial expression. Long black hair, delicately pointed ears and beautiful elven features identify him as Raistlin's apprentice Dalamar.

Crysania has recovered from the groupie-syndrome a bit. "Raistlin," she breathes, "my one true love!" She ignores the hearty laughter from the crowd and the mock-pitying look from Raistlin's apprentice. "Have you finally come to claim me back?"

The mage scowled. "Back? I never wanted you in the first place!"

Crysania hesitates, then decides this must have been another joke she did not get and laughs artificially (even compared to her usual standards).

"I have come because I suffer from an obsession-problem," the archmage explains. His face, nose wrinkled in disgust, gives clues that he might have thought twice if he had known she would be there to strain his nerves.

Crysania attempts a pleasant smile, but her drugged and excited state spoils it, helping her to a cross-eyed goofy-face. "So love, then tell me who you are obsessed with..." Obviously she is expecting to hear her own name or at least an unlabeled (but nonetheless flattering) description of herself quite soon.

"I'm not here because _I_'m obsessed!" Raistlin hisses indignantly. "It's because someone is obsessed with me and I am trying to get rid of him, because he is really a nuisance."

The crowd turns like a single man to look at Dalamar. The pretty dark elf blushes violently.

Raistlin waves a dismissive hand. "Not _him_, you idiots! I'm fine with _his_ obsession! You'd laugh if you knew what that makes him do for me..." His frown returns. "But that's entirely besides the point!"

Tas pops up from out of nowhere and dances a famous-but-annoying kender-dance around Raistlin. "Who is it? Who is it? Who is it?"

Raistlin puts the staff of Magius a little forward and smirks as the kender trips and falls.

"You didn't do that on purpose, did you?" Tas frowns up at him, then smiles his all's-already-forgiven smile. "One can never be sure with you black mages, since you're being evil and all. But come on, you can tell me! I've stopped being obsessed with you long ago. It were rather the interesting magical artifact thingies you had, than you as a person, anyway." A worried expression crosses his face. "But you're not offended by that, are you? We'll be staying friends, yes?"

Raistlin snorts and hits the kender over the head with his staff. The audience claps, all very politely, since cheering and whistling doesn't seem so advisable around a black robe. The mage sits down in the speaker's chair, careful not to spoil the perfectly draped folds of his plushy velvet attire. After the minute it has taken him to make himself comfortable, he takes a look around the audience to make sure they are all paying attention to him -which they do anyway, because there is only one more interesting thing in the room. (This is Dalamar's backside, but they are all too afraid of Raistlin to dare leering at it.)

"It's my brother," says the archmage gloomily. "Caramon is obsessed with me. No not that way!" he adds as some faces turn green and sympathetic glances search Tika. "His obsession is a bit different. Can you imagine he still visits me at least once a week to bring me lunch boxes and wash my living room curtains?"

Tas lifts his drowsy head from the floor. "But that sounds practical! Nobody has ever done these things for me! But then, I don't have a living room. Or curtains. However, some lunch boxes would really be a conveniance." Raistlin promptly knocks him out again.

"He travels all the way from Solace to Planthas only to wash my curtains," Raistlin continues. "Though I rarely ever use the living room and there's never blood anywhere, but on the carpets. Still he insists on travelling for hours and crossing my dangerous forest, just to wash those stupid old art-deco-curtains that the former master of the tower left there! Can you imagine that?"

"But the lunch boxes..."

Raistlin signals Dalamar to drop an anvil (or is it a heavy anvil-shaped lunch box?) on the kender's head, which the dark elf does without hesitation. Successful conditioning is everything in an apprentice.

"I would never eat anything I'm not sure where it comes from. My health is frail at best, I have a lecetine-allergy and you know... poison... Besides, Caramon is a miserable cook." Raistlin shakes his head. "I told him a dozen times I have the tower guardians to cook for me, not to mention Dalamar, who does the finest Elvish cuisine, and if all else fails, I can still conjure up some food or go to a Solamnic take-away and ask for a vegan chop-suey."

"But love," Crysania reprimands him in her most annoying singsong voice. "I'm sure your brother means to do good and he's such a nice man!"

"Which shows again what a cleric's opinions are worth!" Raistlin sneers.

"Perhaps we should just send someone to fetch..." Crysania starts, but is interrupted by the door crashing open. Raistlin has cast a spell to prevent people from escaping, not from coming in. A fatal mistake.

"RAIST!" Caramon, always overjoyed at seeing his brother, crosses the inn's large main room in a few long strides. His face is beaming with the happiness of a five-year-old when his favourite uncle comes visiting (in spite of that uncle calling him a worthless little shitter repeatedly). "I KNEW YOU WOULD COME HOME ONE DAY!"

The AAA-members jump out of his way. Some are knocked over; they will probably die of the various infections they are contracting from the dirty floor within the next two months.

Raistlin fights off his twin with the staff of Magius held horizontally. They circle each other around the speaker's chair. Crysania, Tika and Laurana drag the slumped forms of Tas and Tanis out of the way. Dalamar just watches them a little wide-eyedly.

Caramon's happiness gradually fades. "Why won't you let me hug you, Raist?" he whines. His lower lip has begun to tremble.

"You're like a dog, Caramon," Raistlin hisses, "I kicked you, chained you out in the cold without food and even left you to die several times. Still you are stupid enough to always come back to me!"

"Maybe we should have tied his hands when we left him behind the highway motel the other day," Dalamar suggests helpfully.

Caramon nodds. "Right. You should try that next time. Freeing myself was really easy."

"That is no reason to pretend the whole thing has never happened!" Raistlin is boiling.

"But I'm sure you did not want to kill me in earnest! There's still a lot of good in you! You are my brother! I will always love you!"

Raistlin's lips curl a little. "Whom are trying to convince with that?" he inquires and sounds genuinely curious.

Caramon -confused by being asked a serious question- returns to his whining. "We've not seen each other for soooo long and now you don't even want to hug me!"

"Long? You came to the tower last Wednesday. Remember? You insisted on swiping the floors in my study in that ridiculous rose-print apron of yours."

"But you didn't even say hello then!"

"How should I? I was conjuring a demon from another plane of existence!"

"You could have..."

Muffled sounds come from the door. Parts of the audience have tried to sneak out the once open door and now run back in, frightened by a danger worse than Krynn's most feared black mage.

From somewhere, merry music wafts in. A long line of anorexic blond girls in swirling black-and-pink-with-golden-hems mini-skirts and tight pink tricots, decorated with golden hourglasses, comes dancing in, waving big fluffy-flurry things that look like pink floor mops. They run once around the room -an admirable accomplishment in boots with five-inch heels and with all the drunkards lying spawled everywhere. Then they start another dance in front of Raistlin, running on the spot, drawing their knees up almost to their chins (thereby displaying pink underwear Raistlin had not wanted to see) and waving the mops more fiercely, chanting "Raist-lin, Raist-lin, Raist-lin!" all the time.

Caramon's face lights up. "They've come!"

Raistlin looks mildly bewildered. "What does this mean, Caramon? Where do all the girls come from?"

Caramon grins happily. (The only thing he's really good at.) "They're from the RRFGC!"

Raistlin is beginning to look confused, particularly because the girls have started dancing and waving a large black-and-gold RRFGC-banner. "The what?"

His twin wiggles enthusiastically. A dog would have wagged its tail. "The Rabid Raistlin Fan Girl's Club!"

Raistlin flinches back, half startled, half frightened. "I've got fangirls?" Then he becomes angry. "Why didn't I have fangirls when I was fifteen?"

Tika has meanwhiles stepped forward, hands on her hips. She eyes her husband's brother very coldly. "Because you were unpopular, boring, a bookworm, physically weak, had creepy hobbies and a weird haircut?"

Raistlin -despite his giant IQ (he had inherited the larger part of what had been planned for his brother in addition to his own)- still hasn't sorted the whole affair out. "But I'm like that still -and I do have that very same haircut! Only now my hair is white and I've also gotten a bad bloody cough and hourglass eyes to go with it."

"But you've also become the master of Past and Present!" Caramon pats the mage's shoulder and ignores the dirty looks he is shot from Raistlin as well as from Tika. "And you've got lovely golden skin! Not to mention that you're the most powerful mage who has ever lived! That's why the girls and me started this club-thing."

Though he is more than a foot shorter, Raistlin somehow manages to look down on his twin. "I don't exactly understand why a megalomanic lifestyle -due to massive inferiority complex- and an unhealthy skin-colour, that is most probably the result of a liver-dysfunction, suddenly make me more attractive. I'm also incapable of understanding why it gives me a bunch of brainless, mini-skirt-clad chicks that rot -very nicely indeed- in front of my eyes, but there's another problem that worries me far more: Caramon, why THE ABYSS are you in a fangirls' club?"

The big man seems surprised. "Why? But I started the whole campaign! I was your very first fan after all. And I'm still the most rabid!"

"Do you even know what 'rabid' means?" Raistlin inquires, but is spared from the predictable answer by Dalamar who tugs his robes from the side. "Maaaasteeeer?"

The archmage turns and almost smiles at his apprentice. Just in time he notices the girls the dark elf is holding in his arms and sends each of them a death glare, as well as those who are crowding up behind.

"May we keep them?" Dalamar asks sweetly, making his very cutest face. He even tilts his head a little and flutters his long eyelashes. "At least two or three?"

Raistlin's voice is patient but firm. "No, darling, they are rotting. And they'd just ruin our nice, peaceful life at the tower, don't you think? But the next time you find a stray kitten, you can keep it. And no sacrifices to demons this time, I promise."

Dalamar lets go of the girls and pouts.

Raistlin frowns. "What would you do with them, anyway? They are only girls!"

The dark elf still looks miffed. "Sleep with them of course! They are thin, they are blond, they are stupid, which means they are sexy..."

"And they are rotting."

"I'm not like you, master," Dalamar sulks. "To me they look pretty attractive and I sometimes need a girl..."

Crysania misinterprets this a little. "That's it, love! You should take your apprentice as a good example! A female influence in your life could do you a world of good! If you like, I can..."

"I am absolutely certain, I do NOT need a female influence or anything else related to _you_ in my life," Raistlin ensures her coldly. "And my apprentice sports an overactive sex-drive, that's all. I have caught him mating with the strangest things imaginable and no, I do not think I will ever take _him_ as an example. Even sleeping with him is enough of a strain!"

Crysania lets out a shriek. "You are sleeping with him?" The cleric's expression is horrified.

"Not right now, as you can see, but I've made a habit of doing that quite regularly, yes," Raistlin explains patiently.

Crysania collapses in Laurana's arms, helplessly sobbing. The pointy-eared baby that she cries on, makes sympathetic little noises but doesn't dare to scream for fear of enraging its slowly calming mother anew.

Dalamar hasn't given up yet. "If you won't let me have my own girls, master, I'll start an affair with your sister!"

"Kitiara? How do you know she would be interested? I mean, something besides the fact that she's interested in every handsome male between here and Sanction -and in practically every other direction."

"She sends me love-letters." He stops pouting and looks very smug instead, holdig up a piece of paper covered in a neat and fluent writing and signed K iT in disorderly crayoned letters of different sizes.

"She can write? Let me see!" Raistlin snatches the letter from his apprentice. "As far as I can see, that is Lord Soth's handwriting. Also, the lipstick-marks must be his -they are sort of toothy. And Kitiara does not own any lipsticks, as far as I can remember. Besides, since the word 'love' is never once mentioned, while I can make out at least seventeen different slang words for genitalia on a quick scan, I would rather call your love-letter a porn-letter."

The dark elf smiles. "I'm sure she'd come round if I invited her..."

Raistlin arched his eyebrows. "You won't. I would make the guardian spirits kill her!"

"You told them to kill Caramon as well..."

"Several times, but he is my twin after all, maybe we are too much alike for them to distinguish." He laughs a sarcastic little laughter.

The RRFGC (excluding Caramon) starts a new dance. "E-vil Raist-lin, e-vil Raist-lin, e-vil Raist-lin!"

Raistlin shakes his head. "Nobody ever liked me because I behave antisocially and try to kill my brother! You girls are not normal. You worry me."

Dalamar puts his head on the archmage's shoulder and smiles up at him adoringly. "I like you, master!"

"Because you are antisocial yourself. And no, you still may not keep them. Go on, get rid of them."

Dalamar sighs deeply, but he knows when he has lost. He produces some spell components from his pocket and concentrates. A lightning bolt shoots from his fingers and burns the girls to cinders.

For a moment everyone -including Raistlin- is startled.

"Stacy! Carol! Daisy! Mary-Ann! Lucinda!" Tears streak Caramon's face as he falls to his knees amidst the ashes. "Rose! Lindsey! Violet! Betty!"

Tika smiles weakly. "At least you can't spend your evenings with all those girls anymore."

Raistlin pays them no attention. He eyes his apprentice on whose face the smirk of catlike satisfaction from moments ago has been replaced by his usual innocent and slightly stupid smile. "Dalamar?" The mage's voice has a nasty little edge to it. "Where exactly did you learn that spell?"

"In Wayreth, master." Pure innocence. "When the conclave trained me as a spy to find out your secret goals."

"Uhm... Are you supposed to tell people that?" Caramon, used to being the most stupid person around and therefore careful of criticizing mistakes in others, asks carefully, with a sideways glance at his scowling twin.

The dark elf's face goes blank. Then he remembers. "'Spy-rule #1: Never tell people you're a spy.'" Dalamar hits his forehead with one hand. "Oh shit, I forgot the first rule _again_!"

Raistlin rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Look at your chest! That's why I burnt the five Everbleeding Marks (TM) in there!"

The dark elf looks down on his feet instantly -a gesture perfected during long years of repeated exercising- his face a lovely blush, his hands fingering the front of his robes.

Raistlin watches him fondly and Crysania fiercely fights the impression that he is only inches short of reaching out and pinching his apprentice's cheek approvingly.

"I'm so sorry, master..." the dark elf whispers. His voice is far too throaty and betrays far too much feeling.

The cleric definitely doesn't like this. If she weren't such a friendly, gentle and thoroughly good person, she would most probably hate him. On second thought: screw the holy-cleric pretence! She hates him!

He has actually started to curl a strand of his perfect, splissless, raven-coloured hair around one finger. Then he stops dead in mid-movement. The blank expression returns. The audience realizes that it means he is thinking. Trying to think. "Sorry master," he finally says, "but I'm afraid I didn't forget... The marks were not a reminder! I'm pretty sure you did them on a Friday... " He smiles up at Caramon, explaining, "Friday is our tie-the-apprentice-to-the-bed-and-punish-him day." Caramon's jaw drops and stays open. Dalamar chatters on happily, now clinging to Raistlin's arm. "Do you remember master? You said I had been a very naughty elf that week and you really had to do something about it..."

Raistlin fakes an extremely well-timed coughing fit.

Suddenly a roar and then a crash can be heard outside. Kitiara jumps in through the window. "Sorry, but I forgot something! Tanis? Tanis, where are you?" She spots the sobbing bundle of half-elf, wrapped fetus-like around himself. "There! Aw! What a perfectly nice dress! You always look so lovely in pink!" She lifts him up without much effort and carries him to her waiting dragon.

Laurana hisses impolite Elvish words and seems about to launch into a catfight, to take revenge for her roses, but she doesn't know where to put the baby and is not ready to trust Raistlin's uncharacteristically genial smile in this regard. There are too many rumours about black magic and babies' blood. And she is secretly glad to be rid of her husband. Ansalon has state support for single mothers, after all.

Raistlin watches his sister tie the weakly struggling half-elf to the saddle of her dragon. "Consenting adults..." he mutters. "Come Dalamar, we're going home. It's Friday, I recall."

His apprentice takes out a battered pocket calendar, PR-gift from 'Velvet Dreams', Krynn's most successful mail-order catalogue for mage's robes of all colours. The people standing close to him can see that it is covered in Raistlin-fanstickers and little pink hearts. Inside, the dark elf's girly handwriting has carefully replaced all weekdays with calligraphed FRYDEYs in different colours. "Oh _yes_, master!" he beams. "And I've been _so naughty _again!"

---------------------------------------------

(Sorry, Dalamar... It wasn't me... Argh!)

That was pretty strange again, wasn't it? Are you still alive? Glad you're through? Then leave a review (or a flame telling me I'm sick), please! See me begging? Pleeeeaaase!

Shall I write another chapter (maybe with Bupu in it)? In that case I need ideas! Badly! Who else of the DL-heroes needs being mean to and deserves an uncovering of obsessions or ...uhm... strange bed-habits? Come on, be creative!


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